


Reflection

by eloquated



Series: Unexpectedly Wonderful [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Family Feels, Flashbacks, Gen, Married Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Multi, Not season/series 4 compliant, Parentlock, Sherlock is a Good Parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-26 13:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17747162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: It was the strange sort of afternoon that had once seemed impossible to Molly; the sort of outlandish dream that would creep in at the edges of her mind when she was exhausted, lonely, and her guards were down.  Now, five years later, it had become almost normal.  An afternoon in Sussex, watching her children playing in their grandparent’s back garden.Sometimes life takes unexpected paths, and one August afternoon stirs up memories for the Holmes family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlock221Bismymuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes there are fics that sit, half finished on your drive, because right in the middle, your life goes a bit pear-shaped! 
> 
> This is one of those. 
> 
> Dedicated to the phenomenal Sherlock221ismymuse, for constantly being my inspiration. You've made me a better writer, and I'm sorry this is a little late for your birthday! ❤️

  * **August 2018**



“It’s been madness.  I don’t know what sort of nitwits they have working at that school, but if I have to go in there for a third time, just to get Ollie’s paperwork done..”  Half in the feathery shadow of an ivy trellis, Molly cracked a long suffering smile and shook her head, “Well, I’m almost ready to let Sherlock go talk to them.  Not _quite_ , because I know he’s going to cause more trouble, but _honestly_ , it’s supposed to be the best kindergarten in London.”

“I still don’t know what’s wrong with Christ Church Primary.  It’s the mostly highly rated primary in the city.” Across the garden table, Violet Holmes picked up her teacup in her free hand; and ignored the firm but warning squeeze to the one currently threaded through Martha’s.  

It was the strange sort of afternoon that had once seemed impossible to Molly; the sort of outlandish dream that would creep in at the edges of her mind when she was exhausted, lonely, and her guards were down.  Now, five years later, it had become almost normal. An afternoon in Sussex, watching her children playing in their grandparent’s back garden.

Late summer sunshine and domesticity.

Impossible.  And perfect.

“The same thing that was wrong with it last time.  Sherlock and I don’t want to send the kids to a religious school, and Thomas Jones is the best secular school.  Besides, it’s mixed, so the kids can all attend together.”

“Well, I don’t see how it can be so wonderful if they can’t even manage to get his name right.”  Violet scoffed into her cup, mainly to hide her smile. At her side, Martha squeezed her hand again, affectionate this time (and making it clear that she could, in fact, see her smiling!)

“Leave it alone, love.  The kids would be holy terrors in church, can you even imagine? No, I think they’ve got the right idea.  Better for everyone. Now, if only they’d reconsider their plans to _move_ …”  Martha interjected pointedly, and Molly rolled her eyes with amusement.

“This is starting to feel like the Inquisition!  Is this why you asked us over?”

“Of course not.  We wanted to see our grandchildren.  And it’s not healthy for a woman in your delicate condition to be out in the sun.”  Came the innocent reply, Violet’s head tilted ever so slightly to the side, in the same way Sherlock did when he was trying to sound blameless.  It was just a bit uncanny, and Molly found herself exchanging a knowing glance with Martha.

“I’m pregnant, not made of fairy floss.  And we’re moving because there just isn’t enough room in Baker Street for the two of us, and the four kids.  When the next arrives it’s going to be completely impossible.”

Five.

Her own teacup cradled loosely in her hands, Molly turned to look out at the garden.  Siger was showing Tristan, her budding botanist, how to pull just the weeds from the overflowing vegetable patch at the side of the yard.  Even from the patio, Molly could see the grubby fingerprints all over his once tidy t-shirt, and wondered just how a single four-year-old could manage to get so filthy in such a short time!  She made a mental note to fetch the sunscreen; the poor ginger mite practically burned at the mere mention of sun.

Sherlock seemed to have his hands full with Ulysses, an increasingly lanky five-year-old who was shaping up to look like his father in miniature, (and who had been nicknamed Ollie at three days old by Greg Lestrade.  It had stuck) as he attempted to climb the tree at the bottom of the garden, the long branches sweeping low enough over the fence for him to grab. A job that was being made significantly more difficult with their second youngest, the insatiably rambunctious Ariadne clinging to her father's shoulders like a dark-haired limpet.  

Ollie’s dark curls had grown out over the summer, falling into his eyes and behind the frames of his glasses.  They were forever sliding down his nose, and reminded Molly a little of John Darling, from Peter Pan.  Quiet and curious, Ollie might look like Sherlock, she thought, but in temperament, he was Mummy's little boy.

Even from the patio, they could hear Ariadne’s giggling protests-- she could climb like Ollie, just watch, if he’d just let her down she’d show him!  Her once tidy pigtails had gone all lopsided while she played, and her skin tanned where her sleeves didn’t cover. At nearly three, Ari had discarded the idea of dolls and dress up-- unless it was to steal her father’s coat and sweep around the flat with grand, dramatic flourishes and the sleeves falling over her hands. 

If her brother was John Darling, then Ariadne had her heart set on being Captain Hook.

“He used to do the same thing. Forever hiding behind the doors and trying to scare his brother.”  Violet’s laughing comment pulled Molly back to the present, reminding her belatedly that she’d mentally wandered off for a moment.  

“Sherlock?  I don’t think much has changed.  Sometimes they’re worse than the kids!”  

“He wanted his attention.  Desperate for it. His father and I could have fallen into the sea, and I doubt Sherlock would have noticed.  I’d always wondered, if I’d had another…”

Looking out at the yard, her son laughing and juggling children of her own, Violet couldn’t bring herself to regret the way things had gone.  They were happy. That was all that mattered now.

 

  * **January 1978**



They’d always known from the beginning that it probably wouldn’t last.  Couldn’t last. No matter how much they loved each other; or how perfectly right it felt when the three of them woke up together, bare skin and tangled limbs beneath the faded orange blanket.  

Marriage was the union between a man and a woman, and there was no space in society for exceptions.  

They’d had five years, and Martha knew she should be grateful for that. And she was!  Of course she was… It was just hard to remember the gratitude when Violet, _her Violet_ , was wringing her hands and staring down at the vial on their coffee table.  

The same vial that had looked so innocent that afternoon when they’d hurried from the chemist’s.  Just a few little chemicals, a little water, and a little urine. They’d waited for Siger to leave for the office, and mixed it all together.  

Waited two hours.

“Siger’s going to be so happy.  You know he wanted…”

It could have so easily been her.  But it wasn’t, and Martha knew what she should do.  The _right thing_ to do.  Even when Violet was reaching out for her, and ever fragmented shard of Martha’s being wanted to pull her into her arms.  Kiss her, comfort her; to take care of the woman she loved.

But a baby changed everything.  They were family now-- would be a family.  And she was no part of that.

Siger and Violet _Holmes_ , because Martha knew he’d ask her to marry him when he found out.  

It was the right thing to do.  And Siger was the best sort of man.

“Wait!  Please, don’t go.  Don’t leave. We can talk about this.  Siger and I, we still-- Martie, you know we love you.  We’ll find some way-- The three of us belong together. You _know_ that!”

It was better this way, Martha told herself as she closed the door behind her.  They were brilliant, both of them-- they’d be wonderful parents. The child would be so loved.

But she couldn’t stand by and watch.

The first flight out of London was to Florida.   _Sure,_ Martha thought, _I could use a little sun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the sneaking suspicion that these Holmes kids are going to pop up in other things, too... That's the problem with naming characters! They start demanding lives of their own!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August 2018 & December 1992

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized when I was uploading this chapter that I'd accidentally marked the first chapter as 1/1.. oops! There are a few more, so it's fixed now! *silly El shouldn't multitask while uploading!*

  * **August 2018**



“But _daddy_...”

“Go.  Show mummy your leaves.”

Sherlock Holmes had been called many things during the course of his life.  Some of them were flattering, the sort of praise that his brilliant mind tended to earn from the goldfish of the world.  And some of them were much… less.

The sort of accusations and epithets that were more suited to a junkie, determined to destroy his own life.

Both, he’d come to accept, were fair.

But for all his intelligence, Sherlock had never truly wondered what it would be like to be ‘father’.  How it would feel to see pieces of himself in miniature, his own quirks and expressions looking up at him from an entirely different face.

He’d never pictured the mother of his children, or the strange joy that kindled behind his ribs when he saw her with them.  At the edge of the garden, Sherlock watched as Ulysses (named for the mythological character, not his brother’s middle name!  That was just… coincidence.) took his little sister by the hand and guided her up towards the patio table, where his own Mummy was waiting to coddle and coo over them.

Much to Molly’s amusement.

One day, he promised himself as he started back towards the house, he was going to marry that woman.

And he’d planned to!  Ask her, at least. But there had been one case, and then another.  And Ollie had come early-- not to mention Molly’s irrational desire not to, as she put it, ‘be rolled down the aisle’.  

Then Tristan eleven months later. Ariadne and Marian after that, and there had just been no time to breathe, much less plan a proper wedding. And he wanted it to be proper; which was another desire he’d never expected.  

It seemed to bother him more than Molly.  After almost six years together, they felt married, she’d always laugh-- and it wasn’t as thought she wanted to be with anyone else.  They were happy, and she was happy.. They’d get around to making it legally official eventually.

And logically it was all true.  But Sherlock had found himself wanting the statement of it; the chance to see Molly walking down the aisle, and for the world to know that she was his.  To watch her fumble with her new name, writing Holmes instead of Hooper. Their children had his surname, and a possessive part of him wanted her to have the same.

His Molly.  His pathologist.   _His family_.

And speaking of family…

Ducking through the wide patio doors, Sherlock looked around impatiently for some sign of his brother, and his youngest child.  Teething had turned his usually quiet, sweet tempered daughter into a drooling, pink-cheeked nightmare, and Sherlock had been only too grateful to take Mycroft up on his offer to hold her for a while.

Parenthood was all about adaptation and survival, especially when he and Molly were so radically outnumbered!  “Mycroft…?” He called under his breath, and kicked off his shoes before padding into the house in his socks.

 

  * **December 1992**



“Mycroft come _on!_ ”  Sherlock’s small boots left brown, sludgy holes in the thin layer of snow that had fallen overnight.  It was already starting to melt, and Mycroft had warned him that it wouldn’t be long before all they had left was grey slush.  Which was all the more reason for them to go out now!

Only his brother was being very, very, impossibly and unfairly _slow_.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!  Don’t forget, brother mine, which of us is carrying the sled.”  Mycroft’s voice puffed with little clouds of white, betraying the temperature that hovered at the edge of freezing.  Their noses were already nipped pink, and Mycroft had stopped them twice to fix the scarf around Sherlock’s face.

For his part, Sherlock was much more interested in flailing the tasseled ends about, pretending to be a great adventurer scaling a mountain.  Only, the hill behind their house was a far cry from Everest, and Sherlock didn’t think he looked much like Edmund Hillary. But in his mind, they were trekking up the steep and unforgiving sides of the mountain, breathless from lack of oxygen and standing brave against the wind-swept slope.

Just like the adventurers in the stories Mycroft read him before bed.

They weren’t better than pirates, just.. Different.  And there were no mountains in the Caribbean seas.

“Just a little more, then we can slide from the very top!  And you haves to carry the sled because you’re my sherpa!”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long his brother stayed outside with him, running endless turns up and down the hill until they were both soaked to the skin and shivering.  Mycroft’s fingers slipped on the handle of the sled, cold-stiff and protesting, when he finally declared it too dark to continue. “Come on, Lockie! Mummy’s going to get worried if we stay out any longer, and you’re drenched!”

Looking back on it, years later, Sherlock realized that his brother was only twelve at the time, and just as cold as he was.  But somehow, he’d hauled his exhausted little brother onto his back and carried him home.

Sherlock had fallen asleep before they reached the front door, and the snow had melted by morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This verse is definitely becoming one of my favourite things to write, and I hope you're all enjoying it, too!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August 2018 & February 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! I was so worried that I wouldn't be able to get this chapter finished before I had to leave, but here we are! Luck was with us!
> 
> Just a fair warning, if you're a dedicated anti-vaxxer, this is probably a chapter to skip.

  * **August 2018**



In the five years since becoming a father himself, Sherlock had been home more often than in the twenty years before it.  It always felt a little strange; the walls had memories here, and not all of them were happy.

Things had changed-- the curtains over the kitchen window were lighter, the sun bleached blue of his childhood traded for a pale butter yellow.  The couch in the living room had been replaced, and the crushed cushions that had ones made the walls of his pillow forts were now tidy, with crisp, new edges.  

Privately, Sherlock took a little comfort in the fact that his own children were slowly but surely rumpling all those pristine corners.

And if he and Mycroft were taller, and hopefully wiser than they’d been as children?  Well, some things didn’t change that much.

Sherlock’s searching slowed to a stop as he paused in the kitchen doorway, having caught sight of his big brother.  Even on a quiet afternoon in the country, it seemed that Mycroft couldn’t entirely escape his work. He was a strange man, all brisk lines and tidy pleats that Sherlock had always delighted in disordering.  

The sunlight slanted with late afternoon laziness through the small, high window over the counter.  It was bright and warm, catching on the dancing dust motes and turning them to gold, weaving through the beams of light that tracked across the worn tiled floor.  

Occasionally one of Mycroft’s pacing circuits would carry him through the glow, and it would pick out the copper in his hair; the colour mirrored by the contentedly dozing baby tucked in one arm.  If only the people at Pall Mall could see him now, Sherlock thought with a half smirk, he looked almost human.

Marian was more auburn than ginger, but she had the same pale skin as Tristan, which all but promised to freckle when she got older.  From the doorway, Sherlock watched as his little girl chewed sleepily on one of Mycroft’s knuckles, her bright eyes slowly drifting closed before snapping wide again.

Quiet like her Mummy, but scratch the surface?  And Marian was as curious as any Holmes.

“Yes, I’m aware of the situation. However, I’m not in the office today, nor am I in the _city_ .  I’m certain you can control your own cabinet for one afternoon, _sir_ .”  Mycroft’s voice was almost a snap, the clipped tones carefully moderated not to alarm his niece.  With a half turn he caught sight of Sherlock and arched a long suffering eyebrow, the sort that seemed to say ‘ _You see what I have to put up with?  Imbeciles!’_

Sherlock pressed his mouth together to smother a chuckle, and waited for his brother to hang up on the Prime Minister.  

Mycroft Holmes was the last person in the world that anyone would expect to be good with babies.  It was, Sherlock was very certain, a vast cosmic joke from the never-lazy universe; some pre decided wisdom that had always known he would (despite all evidence saying it was impossible) wind up with a zoo of nieces and nephews.

There was just something about him that babies found calming.  

And Sherlock had mocked him for it-- his uncanny ability to lull babies to sleep just by holding them, his quiet voice soothing their fretting.

Well, he’d mocked him for all of 48 hours, before Ollie had refused to stop screaming, and Sherlock had swiftly realized that being a baby whisperer (however unwilling!) was a gift he wished he possessed!  Molly had been at work, and Sherlock had been terrified; what did he know about being a father?

He was a junkie, an irresponsible man-child that could hardly take care of himself!  And now Ollie needed him.. And he hadn’t known what to do.

From his lounging place in the doorframe, Sherlock cracked a smile at the memory.  Big brother to the rescue, as he’d always done.

“She does have a teething ring.”  He pointed out when Mycroft had finally escaped the call, and motioned to the strangely soft, yet resilient green toy on the kitchen table.  At the sound of her daddy’s voice, Marian stirred a little, opening one eye properly, before clearly deciding that it was too much effort to wake up.

“Which she promptly spat out every time I gave it to her.” Was the dry reply, “Of course, if you think you can do better-”

“I don’t.”  Sherlock shook his head quickly and raised both hands, just in case Mycroft might decide to have her back!  “I’ve tried everything I can think of, and you’ve managed to quiet her. I think I’m going to nominate you for sainthood.”  With a chuckle, Sherlock pushed off the frame and impulsively brushed his fingers tenderly over Marian’s baby-fine hair, the edges already curling into a proper Holmesian mop.

“It’s not my fault you’ve managed to saddle yourself with a flock of children, brother mine.  Thank God Molly has a little sense, otherwise it might be the first sign of the end of days.”

“You love it.”

And he did.  Even when his fingers were sticky, and his dry cleaner was whinging about how difficult it was to get baby spit off bespoke wool.  With a noncommittal shrug, Mycroft settled his niece more comfortably in the crook of his arm, and glanced through the window to the garden.  “And how many more are you planning?”

“At least one more, it seems, but we didn’t _plan_ for any of them!”  

“Tragic.  A Cambridge educated scientist and a doctor from King’s, and neither of you can puzzle out where babies come from.”

Sherlock snorted a laugh and joined his brother at the window, catching sight of their own father deep in conversation with his four-year-old, both of them kneeling by the onions.  “I thought having children would feel like the end of my life. Now I can’t imagine my life without them.”

Marian’s small, soft fingers curled into the fabric of her uncle’s white linen sleeve, and with a yawn she draped herself more comfortably against his side.  “No,” Mycroft agreed ruefully, “Nobody would have guessed what a good father you’ve turned out to be. But you are.”

 

  * **February 2016**



“Boys, no-- alright, Ulysses, do you want to push that little cart?”  Herding a pair of toddlers, Sherlock had come to realize, was almost impossible.  As soon as Ollie was settled, his brother had started to wander off. Which usually involved running after the far-too-quick (for Sherlock’s good, anyway) Tristan as he wobbled off at top speed towards whatever had caught his eye.

Clearly, he needed more hands.

Because even if he managed to wrangle Tristan into the cart-- which wasn’t always successful, especially if he decided to be cross about having his exploration scuppered!-- Ollie was always waiting with a dozen new questions.  And there was a shopping list in one of his pockets, he was certain; but only because Molly had jammed it into his coat as he was leaving the flat!

Sherlock Holmes, defeated by a bloody Tesco and a pair of boys that couldn’t tie their own shoes!

And what was he going to do when Molly had the next one?  

The fact that she was exhausted and looked about to pop was the whole reason he was doing the errands with children in tow; she needed to rest, and logically Sherlock knew that.  He just happened to be equally sure that he’d need a nap himself when this was all over!

With a little finagling, Tristan tucked back into his pram and Ollie contented with a cart of his own (and Sherlock wasn’t sure if the inventor of those was a genius, or a madman.  It really depended on how many times his son accidentally ran over his feet), they finally started into the shop.

Well, they got to the doors of the shop, at least.  But of course, nothing could be quite that easy.

The table set up just outside the building was long enough for three people to sit behind, along with a vast collection of pamphlets and photos, all blown up so large that the resolution had turned grainy and pixelated.  Stock images of needles and happy, but blurry babies smiling for the photographer’s camera.

“Sir?  Sir! We’re from Vaccine Emancipation, and we’d like a second to talk to you!  I see you’re out babysitting your lovely boys, and I know you’d never want anything to happen to them!  What’s why we’re here to educate people on the dangers of--”

Sherlock’s fingers tightened on the handle of the pram as a woman in a matched cardigan set leaped up from the table, a handful of pamphlets clutched in her fist.  He could see the tiny gold cross at her collar, and the gleam of the freshly converted in her gaze. Twenty-eight. Married. Two children.

“Not interested.”  He said darkly, his voice pitching down a warning octave that the woman didn’t seem to register.  “And I’m not _babysitting_. These are _my children._ The word you're looking for is 'parenting'.”

“I know it’s hard to hear, sir, especially if you’re already taken your children in to be injected with this _poison_ , but there’s still hope!  Especially if they haven’t taken all of their vaccines, you can still protect them!”

“Daddy…?”  Uncertainly, Ollie shrank closer to Sherlock’s side, his fingers reaching out for the long drape of his Belstaff like a security blanket.  Even Tristan looked confused at the situation, his thumb sliding unconsciously into his mouth for comfort. “Can we go now? _Please?_ ”

For a moment, Sherlock looked at the woman, her face turned up to him with hopeful zeal.  He could tear her to pieces, he knew. Could peel away the layers of her devotion to reveal the ugly insecurities beneath. It was all there, written as plain as day in the scuffs of her old shoes, and the way she unconsciously pressed her thumb to her wedding band.

It would make a scene.  One that might scare his boys.  And one that would certainly open up a whole box of questions that Sherlock wasn’t sure he could answer yet.  Of course he could tell his sons about the science, and about the health of it-- why vaccines worked, and how they saved lives.

Somehow, he didn’t think that would answer all their questions.  

And how did you explain something like that in a way a toddler could understand?  Without scaring them? With a set jaw, Sherlock wrapped his arm around Ollie’s shoulders and pulled him in close to his side.  

If Molly where here, she’d know what to do.  

“We’re not interested.”  

Ollie’s fingers found Sherlock’s as his father lead them passed the table and into the store.  “Daddy, can we get pickles?! I hasn’t had them in for ages!”

Compared to his boy’s happiness, being right just didn’t seem as important as it once had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be back this weekend with an update, and until then, much love!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 2010 & August 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anything else- if you haven't checked out the _AMAZING_ chapter cards made by sherlock221bismymuse, then go! Do that first! They're the most beautiful things, and I can't stop looking at them! 
> 
> Seen them? Good! Now we can get on with the chapter! 💜

  * **January 2010**



Sometimes being back in London was strange, as though all the intervening decades had never happened.  She’d lived and married, and seen more of the world than she had ever expected to. Yes, her husband had turned out to be a bastard, but that was a chapter of her story, too.  Even if she was grateful to have shut the book on it.

The simple, happy years with Violet and Siger  seemed like another person’s life, almost. She recognized the lost, broken hearted girl in her memories, but they were faded and worn thin at the edges, coloured with the soft, golden sepia tones of nostalgia and longing.  She missed the young woman that had loved so wholly and completely, setting her unbroken heart in her lover’s hands, and trusting that they would keep it safe.

And they had.  For as long as she had let them.  

Martha tried not to count her mistakes -- God knew, he  _ knew _ (on the days she bothered to believe at all.  Her Church of England childhood had long since given way to Humanism) she had enough of them.  No point dwelling on the ones she couldn’t change.

And besides, she reminded herself whenever the old urge began to whisper louder, what would she say to them?  They’d grown up. Moved on. And a few shared memories? They weren’t worth the awkwardness. Martha wasn’t even sure she’d be able to answer the questions she was sure they would have.  

So she moved back to London.  Settled herself. 

Loved a woman with Violet’s flashing wit and bright eyes, and tried not to compare them.

Loved a man with Siger’s thick curls, and refused to think about him when she ran her fingers through them.  

The memories of her husband blurred into insignificance when he was gone, but Siger and Violet--  _ her Siger and Violet _ \-- were never far from her mind.

Then capricious luck… Fate… Karma?  

Whatever the bloody thing was, it had left Sherlock Holmes acting against her husband, and living in her upstairs flat.  Of all the detectives, in all the world, it had to be  _ him _ .  With Violet’s slanted smile and Siger’s blue-green-grey eyes that never seemed to catch the light in the way she expected. He was tall and thin, and sometimes when Martha listened to him speak, she could hear fragments of the people she had loved.

He was impossible, an insufferable know-it-all that made her want to clip him upside the head (Her boy, her Sherlock, because he wasn’t taking care of himself, and someone had to make sure he ate).  Just like her Violet; the both of them lost in their work until they forgot about the world around them. 

So Martha took to setting sandwiches beside him because, like his Mummy?  He’d eat if it was there. 

It hurt.  But he wasn’t the child that had shattered their happiness, and so the pricking pain was bittersweet.  One step removed, and in that grey area she found peace. Even if she did catch herself wondering, occasionally:

If things had been different.  If she’d found the courage to stay.

Perhaps he would have been hers.  Properly hers. 

Of course, Martha consoled herself, her thoughts soothed by the rhythmic click of her knitting needles (a properly old-lady thing to do.  How shocked people would be if they knew how she’d learned. Violet had always been such a dedicated tutor), he might always have been Violet’s.  

God knew he’d inherited her filthy temper.

For the third time in an hour, Martha glanced up towards the ceiling.  It was quiet upstairs, and had been for most of the day. Long enough, in fact, that she was starting to worry.  Usually there were the telltale sounds of his heavy footsteps banging across the floor and clattering on the stairs, or the quick, snap-crack of the cupboard doors as he tried to find something to eat, or worked through his latest foul smelling experiment.

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a quiet tenant, and Martha appreciated the noise.

The absence of it seemed very strange.

It was late when the leaden silence was finally broken by a sharp rap on the door-- the front door, not the one to her flat.  And with a frown, and a look to the clock-- late, too late for civilized people to be out and about-- Martha anchored her last knitting stitch so it wouldn’t unravel, and made her way out into the corridor.

She’d never met him before.

The child that destroyed everything.

He wasn’t a child anymore, of course.  Logically she’d known that, she had heard Sherlock whinging on about his worried, pestering big brother.

And it wasn’t fair, she knew that.  Mycroft Holmes had done nothing more loathsome than  _ exist _ .  He’d been born, lived, and his presence in the world had shattered the pipe-dream plans that they’d made.  

But she didn’t need to know him to recognize him.

He had Siger’s eyes, too.  Just like Sherlock. And his fine hands, in black leather gloves, one of them raised to knock again when she opened the door.  Mycroft looked exhausted, and the outside light cast the dark shadows under his eyes into stark relief. A skull face with a wearied, pinched mouth and a smattering of freckles across his nose.  

“You must be Mrs. Hudson… My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I’m looking for my brother.”

For a moment, standing in the doorway, Martha wanted nothing more than to slam it closed.  It was small and petty, and she forced the impulse down into the sick churning in her stomach.

If she closed the door, perhaps she could keep out the small, whispering thoughts.  

_ You ruined everything. _

_ But if I’d been braver… _

_ If they’d found me…  Did they even look? We were so young, and I was so stupid. _

_ I should have been your mother, too. _

_ But I abandoned you.  All. I was scared. _

“He’s upstairs.  Come in, Mr. Holmes.”

 

  * **August 2018**



Through the patio doors, Martha could see the boys; their images blurred by the sunny reflection of the garden.  The one she’d taken in, and the one she’d rejected. One day she’d find the words to apologize for the way she’d treated him.  And for the unkind thoughts she’d thankfully never been weak enough to voice. A small mercy.

One day.

“Martie?”

“Nana?”

With a shake, Martha managed a smile for Ariadne as she clambered up onto the settee, and planted her small, warm body between her and Violet.  She smelled of soil and sweat, and the faded vestiges of the sweet-smelling shampoo Molly used to wash her hair. “Sorry, dear.. What was that?”  

“I  _ said _ I founds a ladybug!  It was red an black an all spotty!”  Ariadne repeated with a huff that reminded Martha of her father, impatient and craving attention.  From the look Molly cast her across the table, she wasn’t the only one that had noticed, and the women shared a quick, conspiratorial smile.  

Those mercurial Livingstone moods that thrown true in Sherlock, and carried through to his children-- God help them all!

“Did you?  And was it a nice ladybug?”

“I don’  _ know _ .  It flewed away.”  Ariadne lisped in frustration, and tried to sit up just a little straighter, obviously trying to reach for the plate of biscuits in the middle of the table.  Of all the children, Ari had the most ravenous sweet tooth, and it was no surprise to anyone when her grubby fingers reached for the chocolate biscuits and ignored the sandwiches entirely! 

“Ariadne Violet, you know better than to grab.  What do you say?” Molly interjected gently, sliding the plate just out of reach.  

“Peease?  I’m  _ so hungry _ .  Starving, Mama.”

And with those few words, Martha felt the shadow evaporate from her thoughts. Yes, she had made mistakes.  Yes, they’d missed a lot of time. But her Violet’s fingers were slowly, idly, combing through the hair at the nape of her neck, just as she had done when they were young.  

Siger was playing with the grandchildren they never thought they would have.  And that night, Martha knew she’d be tucked in between the two people she was made for, and it wouldn’t matter how much time had passed, because there was still love.

That hadn’t changed.  And if it could survive all these years?  Martha was fairly sure it could survive almost anything.

The world had changed, and their family ( _ their family _ , it never ceased to sound beautiful to her!) accepted them.  Just as they were, the three of them.

“Ollie, why don’t you go get your daddy and your uncle?  They should to have a bite or two before there’s none left.”  

She’d find a way to apologize, eventually.  But for right now? There were four kids that called her Nana, and they had never known a life when she didn’t live just down the stairs.  

They only knew that Nana baked lemon cake, and if they wanted a piece?  They’d have to get there before their daddy! That sometimes they were allowed to curl up on her couch and watch telly in the afternoons, when they needed a little time away from their busy siblings.

Nana who belonged with Grandma and Grandpa, but didn’t live with them-- and they didn’t wonder why.  It just  _ was. _

She could get things right, this time.

Because she was finally.

_ Finally. _

Exactly where she belonged.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is going to be a series (if you haven't checked out 'Unbuyer's Remorse', it's sent in the same verse), but I'm at a loss for a series name. If you have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September 2013 & August 2018.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, the last chapter! 
> 
> There's definitely going to be more in this series, however, so keep an eye on the Sherlolly tag (and when I finally pin down a proper series title, I'll combine them all together!) 
> 
> Now, away from the rambling writer, and onto the good stuff!

  * **September 2013**



The basement of St. Bart’s was a quiet space.  Of course, there was the steady, wet drip of the leaky tap in the staff shower, but that had been on the to-repair list before Molly had started working there.  Privately, she thought the maintenance team felt uncomfortable in the cool, grey-tiled basement halls, so they put off coming down here unless absolutely necessary.

The noise of the hospital-- a constant low rumble of activity-- vibrated down through the floors above.  It was a living cacophony of rattling carts and the heavy, dull thud of footsteps. Occasionally, Sadie in Nursing would make an announcement over the PA, and there was something in the high, childish trill of her voice that seemed to carry.  An artificially cheery pop of sound that broke through the ambient white noise.

It was a strange place to work, Molly supposed; certainly she’d been terrified at first!  Oh, she’d been qualified, in the way that recent graduates tended to be. Armed with her academic credentials and not quite enough hands-on experience; a veteran of lecture halls and group projects, because there had always been a shortage of cadavers.

Mike Stamford had turned out to be the least intimidating boss in the whole of London, and by the end of the month she’d slotted comfortably into place here.  The only female pathologist in the city-- and they’d never treated her any differently.

“Andy, could you add a few boxes of nitrile gloves to the list?  We’re running low, and Chris picked up latex ones last time.  _ Again _ .  I don’t know what he thinks I’m going to do with those!  They’re useless when I’m doing autopsies.” Molly laughed over her shoulder as she turned into the locker room, the sound of her colleague’s amusement echoing faintly in the tiled space before fading.  

It had been the slowest day in the history of slow days.  Not that she wanted it to be busy! In that strange paradox of the medical profession, a busy, interesting day meant that people were suffering-- a fascinating murder meant that someone had lost their brother, mother.. Child. But at the same time, the eerie, liminal space of the morgue could become endlessly dull when you only had paperwork for company.

At least with a murder, there was evidence to find.  A whole story written in greying, cold flesh, and Molly had helped solve more than a few since Sherlock had--

Sherlock.

Molly’s fingers curled against the cold door of her locker, feeling a tiny burr in the metal under the pad of her ring finger.  A sharp little flaw that was almost invisible to the eye, but unmistakable when you touched it. Her smile faded as she caught her reflection in the tiny mirror she’d taped to the inside of her locker door.  

Just the same as when he’d left, really.  Plain. No makeup, because the cadavers didn’t care what she looked like, and it was always a smudged mess after an autopsy, anyway.  But Tom didn’t mind; he thought she was rather pretty, in her own simple way. 

Beneath the blue tinged fluorescent lights, her ring looked garishly bright, and Molly found herself turning the stone in towards her palm.  

Two years.  He’d been gone for two years, and Molly’s only thin comfort was the fact that Mycroft had promised her-- after much badgering-- that he was safe.  No. 

Not safe.  Not out there, trying to dismantle the minefield Moriarty had left behind. 

Alive.

And she could wear Tom’s ring and look at flats, because it felt like someone else’s life.  He was a good man, she knew that. Just like she knew that he deserved better than to be a consolation prize for a woman that was still--

Pining?  No. Too intense.  She wasn’t some Regency era heroine!

Longing?  Just as bad.

Missing.

That was still  _ missing _ a man that might never come home.  So she agreed to marry Tom when he’d asked, because that’s what you did after a year.  You made plans for the future. You tried to look forward, and imagine what it would be like.  Tom was neither brilliant, nor exciting-- but he was kind, and he loved her. 

“You’re a heel, Molly Hooper.”  She told her reflection, but there was only her own condemning expression looking back at her.  

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

In half an instant, Molly’s heart locked behind her ribs, and her fingers felt limply from her locker door.  With the soft swish of heavy fabric, Sherlock stepped around the corner, his face framed by the finite edges of the mirror.  That lovely, smirking face that Molly had almost been convinced she would never see again.

But when she turned, sharp on her heel, it was his expression that cracked.  “Molly, I-” He began, but his voice collapsed in on itself, think and wavering.  Under the little-boy desire to sweep in, all dashing and dramatic; to put on a show for the both of them; Molly could see the way his mouth moved around silent, stricken syllables.

The way his fingers curled against his palm.

Mouth opening, but his words abandoning him.

He’d had two years to find the right words to explain how much he had missed her.  And now that he was here? They’d evaporated, every syllable.

With jellied knees, Sherlock let Molly guide him over to the long, low wooden bench and sat down with an audible thump.  He had so many things to tell her! And yet, he found himself wrapping his arms hard about her waist, his face pressed into the hideous softness of her sweater.  It smelled of cheap, fresh detergent and the sweet, citrus tang of her body wash. It always reminded him of bergamot, but not quite.

He’d always meant to ask what it was.

Molly’s heart lurched painfully back to life, beating double fast to make up for lost time, the echo of it radiating at the base of her throat. “It’s alright.. It’s ok..”  The words sounded trite with shock, even as they left her mouth. She could feel his breath, huffing warmly through her sweater with every laboured pant, and the way his fingers clutched at her waist until her sweater bunched in his hands.

Spilling through his fingers as he twisted.

Dragging her in close, and anchoring her tightly in the space between his parted knees.

And Molly knew it had to be real, because her imagination could never have conjured up this.  “Sherlock..” She swallowed too hard, almost a gulp, and slowly passed her unsteady fingers over his unruly mop of short-cropped curls, the edges still crisp and soft from bring recently cut.

Beneath her hands he shuddered bodily, with a tremor that began at the nape of his neck and vanished beneath the upturned collar of his coat.  She could feel the way it rolled down his spine when she rested her free hand on his back, fingers splayed against the broad, sure muscles. 

“You’re home now.  You’re safe… You’re safe...”

Mike would forgive her taking the rest of the day off.  It wasn’t as though the paperwork was going anywhere.

And she wasn’t going to let Sherlock go again.

 

  * **August 2018**



“Ground control to Molly Hooper.. Come back, Molly.”  Sherlock teased, and slotted his tall, lanky body into the space between Molly’s chair and the ivy trellis.  His hands were warm as they rested on her shoulders, the violin-roughened pads of his fingers kneading lazily into her tight muscles. 

Molly cracked a smile and leaned into the impromptu massage, her head tilted back so she could look up at him. “I’m here.  Mostly. I was just thinking about all the things we need to get done when we get back to the city.” 

On the other side of the table, the three older children were raiding the plates of sandwiches; playing out in the garden always worked up quite the appetite!  They were dusty and grubby, and smelled vaguely like coconut from the sunscreen; sucking smudges of egg mayonnaise and mustard from their fingers. 

Molly was fairly sure they’d sleep the whole drive home.

“It’s just, Ollie’s starting school, and we still have to find somewhere else to live before the new baby.  And Marian has a checkup tomorrow, and Ari needs new shoes because she says her’s pinch her toes. There’s just never enough time, and I don’t know how we’re going to manage another one!”  She shook her head ruefully, but her shoulders began to ease under his hands.

Sherlock only grinned unhelpfully, and when he leaned over to kiss the back of her neck, he rested his broad palm for a moment on the curve of her belly.  She wasn’t big enough to see, not yet, but he could feel the way her body was changing under her loose shirt. It never stopped feeling miraculous. “We’re already outnumbered, and have no time or sanity left to lose.  We’ll be fine.”

He was right, of course.

Turning her head, Molly kissed his fingers, her gaze half lingering on their children.  “You know, this baby is going to need a name.” She smiled, and slid just a little to the side to make room for Sherlock on the loveseat beside her.

Their new baby, just in time for Christmas.

But for now, it was warm, and her children were making plans to be adventurers in the garden after lunch.  Yes, there were things to plan, and things to do. 

Now there was lazy summer sunshine, and the heavy weight of Sherlock’s arm settling around her shoulders, drawing her into his side.  And with a sleepy smile, Molly decided that the future could wait for a few hours. 

Right now, the present was perfect.

“... What do you think of Theseus?”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone whose stuck with this story, your comments have been so inspiring! ❤


End file.
